Gorean Commands and Positions

Collar - Submission of the Female

For more quotes on Submission see:  Holidays/Feasts/Celebration - Submission

I could not help feeling sorry for her, even in the stern world of Gor. She had been through too much and was clearly not of the stock of the tavern girls; slavery would not have been a good life for her, as it might have been for them. I felt that, somehow, in spite of her collar, she was free. I had felt this even when my father had commanded her to rise and submit to me, accepting me as her new master. She had risen and walked across the room, her feet bare on the stone floor, and dropped to her knees before me, lowering her head and lifting and extending her hands to me, the wrists crossed. The ritual significance of the gesture of submission was not lost on me; her wrists were offered to me, as if or binding. Her part in the plan was simple, though ultimately fatal.  TARNSMAN OF GOR; 1; Page 67

Now that Vika was recovering I suddenly became aware of the difficulties that might ensue. The last time I had seen this woman conscious had been in the chamber where she had tried with the snares of her beauty to capture and conquer me for my archenemy, Sarm the Priest-King. I knew that she was faithless, vicious, treacherous and because of her glorious beauty a thousand times more dangerous than a foe armed only with the reed of a Gorean spear and the innocence of sword steel.
As she gazed upon me her eyes held a strange light which I did not understand.
Her lips trembled. “I am pleased to see that you live,” she whispered.
“And I,” I said sternly, “am pleased to see that you live.”
She smiled ruefully.
“You have risked a great deal,” she said, “to thong the wrists of a girl.”
She lifted her bound wrists.
“Your vengeance must be very precious to you,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I see,” she said, “that even though I was once a proud woman of the high city of Treve you have not honored me with binding fiber but have bound my limbs only with the thong of your sandal, as though I might be the lowest tavern slave in Ar—carried off on a wager, a whim or caprice.”
“Are you, Vika of Treve,” I asked, “higher than she of whom you speak, the lowest tavern slave in Ar?”
Her answer astounded me. She lowered her head. “No,” she said, “I am not.”
“Is it your intention to slay me?” she asked.
I laughed.
“I see,” she said.
“I have saved your life,” I said.
“I will be obedient,” she said.
I extended my hands to her and her eyes met mine, blue and beautiful and calm, and she lifted her bound wrists and placed them in my hands and kneeling before me lowered her head between her arms and said softly, very clearly, “I the girl Vika of Treve submit myself—completely—to the man Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba.”
She looked up at me.
“Now, Tarl Cabot,” she said, “I am your slave girl and I must do whatever you wish.”
I smiled at her. If I had had a collar I would then have locked it on her beautiful throat.
“I have no collar,” I said.
To my amazement her eyes as they looked up into mine were tender, moist, submissive, yielding. “Nonetheless, Tarl Cabot,” she said, “I wear your collar.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
She dropped her head.
“Speak, Slave Girl,” I said.
She had no choice but to obey.
The words were spoken very softly, very slowly, haltingly, painfully, and it must have cost the proud girl of Treve much to speak them. “I have dreamed,” she said, “since first I met you, Tarl Cabot, of wearing—your collar and your chains. I have dreamed since first I met you of sleeping beneath the slave ring—chained at the foot of your couch.”
It seemed to me incomprehensible what she had said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
She shook her head sadly. “It means nothing,” she said.
My hand fixed itself in her hair and gently turned her face up to mine.
“—Master?” she asked.
My stern gaze demanded an answer.
She smiled, my hand in her hair. Her eyes were moist. “It means only,” she said, “that I am your slave girl—forever.”  PRIEST KINGS OF GOR; 3; Pages 192-194

Then he removed his hands from her shoulders and, as the crowd cried out, she sank in abject misery at his feet and performed the ceremony of submission, kneeling, lowering the head and lifting and extending the arms, wrists crossed.  NOMADS OF GOR; 4; Page 160

The auctioneer signaled to the Musicians again and once more, to the shouts of the crowd, while he held open his hand, not yet closing it, taking bids, the girls performed the last moments of Ar’s dance of the newly collared slave girl, who dances her joy at the thought that she will soon be in the arms of a strong master. When the dance ended the three girls, slaves, knelt in the position of submission, back on their heels, arms extended, heads lowered, wrists crossed as though for binding; Elizabeth knelt facing the crowd and, perpendicular to her, on her left and right knelt Virginia and Phyllis, a vulnerable, submitted flower of slave girls.  ASSASSIN OF GOR; 5; Page 308

She came and stood before me, and then dropped to her knees, resting back on her heels. She lowered her head and extended her arms, wrists crossed, the submission of the Gorean female. I did not immediately bind her, but walked about her, examining her as prize. I had not hitherto understood her as so beautiful, and desirable. At last, after I had well satisfied myself as to her quality, I took a bit of binding fiber that had fastened her ankles at the prow, and lashed her wrists together.  RAIDERS OF GOR; 6; Page 92

Strangely I gave little thought to the possibility that I might be sold. Once, however, after I had lifted my head, smiled prettily, and uttered the ritual phrase of the inspected slave girl, “Buy me, Master,” my heart nearly stopped. The man had not continued on. He was still regarding me. Further, with horror, I realized that he was regarding me with some interest. I could tell by his eyes. I had a terrible, sinking feeling. I turned white. I wanted to get up and cry out, and run, dragging wildly at the chain. Then, to my unspeakable relief, he was no longer in front of me, but was inspecting the next girl. I hear her “Buy me, Master.” I began to shudder. He also stopped before another girl, the ninth on the chain. When he had traversed the chain, he returned to stand before me. It was as though I was made of wood. I could not meet his eyes. I was terrified. I could not even repeat, “Buy me, Master.” He was then further down the chain again, before the ninth girl. He purchased her. Targo sold two girls that afternoon. I saw moneys exchange hands. I saw the ninth girl released from the chain. I saw her kneeling before her buyer, back on her heels, head down, arms extended, wrists crossed, as though for binding. It was the submission of the girl to her new master. He put slave bracelets on her, fastening her wrists together, and put a leash on her throat. I saw him lock the leash to a ring on the side of his wagon. She wanted to touch him, but he cuffed her away. She seemed timid, but happy. It had been a long time since she had been owned by a master. I wondered what it would be like to belong to a man. I shuddered. The girl knelt in the shade of the wagon until the caravan moved, and then, getting up, leashed, walked beside the wagon. She turned once, lifting her braceleted wrists. We waved to her. She seemed happy.  CAPTIVE OF GOR; 7; Pages 69-70

“But we must rest now,” she said, getting up and extinguishing the brass lamp in the tent.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because tomorrow you will be collared,” she said.
I knelt, naked, on a large fur.
“Am I not to be chained tonight?” I asked.
“No,” said Ena. Then her voice reached me in the darkness. “You will not escape.”
I lay down and pulled the fur about me. I clenched it in my fists and bit it with my teeth. Then I lay with my head against it, wetting it with my tears.
I lifted my head. “You are a slave, Ena,” I said. “Do you not hate men?”
“No,” said Ena.
I heard her with irritation.
“I find men very exciting,” said Ena. “Often I wish to give myself to them.”
I heard her with horror. How shocking that she should speak so! Had she no pride? If such thoughts were entertained by her, surely she should have carefully concealed them, keeping them as her forbidden secret!
I, at least, hated men!
But tomorrow one of them would own me—fully. I would be his, by collar-right, by all the laws of Gor, to do with as he pleased.
I had not been chained. I had expected to be chained, heavily, and in short chains, fastened to rings, but I had not been.
But I was secured, well secured, locked within the tall smooth palisade. “You will not escape,” had said Ena.
Tomorrow I, Elinor Brinton, would be collared. For the first time on Gor I would wear the locked metal of a slave girl.
“You are lovely,” said Ena.
I knelt, naked, on the scarlet rug in the tent of the women. I had been washed, and my hair had been combed. The slave girl replaced the glass stopper in a small, ornate bottle of Torian scent. “I shall touch you again,” she said, “twice, before you are led forth.”
Another girl, one of four near me, besides Ena, again knelt behind me and again began to pass the narrow, purple horn comb through my hair.
“She is combed,” said one of the other girls, laughing.
“Aren’t you excited,” asked the girl combing my hair.
I could not answer.
“You know your part in the ceremony?” asked Ena, not for the first time.
I nodded my head.
It could not be I, Elinor Brinton, who knelt in this tent on this barbaric world!
One of the girls ran to the tent flaps and looked out. I could see, outside, through the tied-back opening of the tent, men, and girls, passing back and forth. The day was sunny and warm. There were soft breezes.
I was frightened.
I could smell the scent of the perfume. It was superior to any I had ever worn on Earth, when I had been wealthy and could command the customized attentions of the finest continental perfumers, and yet her, on this barbaric planet, it was used without thought to adorn the body of Elinor Brinton, a mere slave girl. I had not been permitted cosmetics.
I knelt.
I waited. For better than a quarter of an Ahn I knelt, waiting.
“Perhaps he will not collar her today,” said one of the girls.
Suddenly the girl at the tent flap whispered excitedly, gesturing back toward us, “Prepare her! Prepare her!”
“Stand,” said Ena.
I did so.
I gasped as they brought forth a long, exquisite garment, hooded, of shimmering scarlet silk.
Behind me, swiftly, one of the girls wound my hair into a single braid and then, coiling it, fastened it at the back of my head with four pins. The pins would be undone by Rask of Treve.
The garment was placed upon me. The hood fell at my back. The garment was sleeveless.
“Place your hands behind your back and cross your wrists,” said Ena.
She had, in her hand, an eighteen-inch strip of purple binding fiber, about half an inch in width, flat, set with jewels.
I felt my wrists lashed behind my back.
Ena then gestured to the girl with the small, ornate bottle. The girl removed the stopper and, quickly, again, touched me with the scent, behind each ear, a tiny drop on her finger. I smelled the heady perfume. My heart was beating rapidly.
Then Ena again approached me. This time she carried, coiled in her hand, some seven or eight feet of slender, coarse rope, simple camp rope. She knotted one end of this about my neck, tightly enough that I felt the knot. My wrists would be bound by jeweled binding fiber but I would be led forth on a simple camp rope.
“You are very lovely,” said Ena.
“A lovely animal!” I cried, tethered.
“Yes,” said Ena, “a lovely, lovely animal.”
I looked at her with horror.
But then I realized that Elinor Brinton was indeed an animal, for she was a slave.
It was thus not inappropriate that she should find herself so, as she was, tethered, about her neck, knotted, a simple length of camp rope, slender and coarse, fir for leading verr or girls.
I turned my head to one side.
Ena drew the hood up from my back and over my head.
“They are ready!” said the girl at the entrance to the tent.
“Lead her forth,” said Ena.
I was led through the camp, and, here and there, some men and slave girls followed me.
I came to a clearing, before the tent of Rask of Treve. He was waiting there. On my tether I was led before him. I looked at him, frightened.
We stood facing one another, I about five feet from him.
“Remove her tether,” he said.
Ena, who had accompanied me, unknotted the rope, and handed it to one of the girls.
I wore the long, scarlet garment, hooded, sleeveless. My hands were bound behind my back with binding fiber.
“Remove her bonds,” said Rask of Treve.
In his belt I saw that he had thrust an eighteen-inch strip of binding fiber. It was not jeweled. It was about three quarters of an inch in thickness; it was of flat, supple leather, plain and brown, of the sort commonly used by tarnsmen for binding female prisoners.
Ena untied my wrists.
Rask and I regarded one another.
He approached me.
With one hand he brushed back my hood, revealing my head and hair. I stood very straight.
Carefully, one by one, he removed the four pins, handing them to one of the girls at the side.
My hair fell about my shoulders, and he smoothed it over my back.
One of the girls, she with the purple horn comb, combed the hair, arranging it.
“She is pretty,” said one of the girls in the crowd.
Rask of Treve now stood some ten feet from me. He regarded me.
“Remove her garment,” he said.
Ena and one of the girls from the tent parted the garment and let it fall about my ankles.
Two or three of the girls in the crowd breathed their pleasure.
Some of the warriors smote their shields with the blades of their spears.
“Step before me naked,” said Rask of Treve.
I did so.
We faced one another, not speaking, he with his blade, and in his leather. I with nothing, stripped at his command.
“Submit,” he said.
I could not disobey him.
I fell to my knees before him, resting back on my heels, extending my arms to him, wrists crossed, as though for binding, my head lowered, between my arms.
I spoke in a clear voice. “I, Miss Elinor Brinton, of New York City, to the Warrior, Rask, of the High City of Treve, herewith submit myself as a slave girl. At his hands I accept my life and my name, declaring myself his to do with as he pleases.”
Suddenly I felt my wrists lashed swiftly, rudely, together. I drew back my wrists in fear. They were already bound! They were bound with incredible tightness. I had been bound by a tarnsman.
I looked up at him in fear. I saw him take an object from a warrior at his side. It was an opened, steel slave collar.
He held it before me.
“Read the collar,” said Rask of Treve.
“I cannot,” I whispered. “I cannot read.”
“She is illiterate,” said Ena.
“Ignorant barbarian!” I heard more than one girl laugh.
I felt so ashamed. I regarded the engraving on the collar, tiny, in neat, cursive script. I could not read it.
“Read it to her,” said Rask of Treve to Ena.
“It says,” said Ena, “—I am the property of Rask of Treve.”
I said nothing.
“Do you understand?” asked Ena.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”
Now, with his two hands, he held the collar about my neck, but he did not yet close it. I was looking up at him. My throat was encircled by the collar, he holding it, but the collar was not yet shut. My eyes met his. His eyes were fierce, amused, mine were frightened. My eyes pleaded for mercy. I would receive none. The collar snapped shut. There was a shout of pleasure from the men and girls about. I heard hands striking the left shoulder in Gorean applause. Among the warriors, the flat of sword blades and the blades of spears rang on shields. I closed my eyes, shuddering.
I opened my eyes. I could not hold up my head. I saw before me the dirt, and the sandals of Rask of Treve.
Then I remembered that I must speak one more line. I lifted my head, tears in my eyes.
“I am yours, Master,” I said.
He lifted me to my feet, one hand on each of my arms. My wrists were bound before my body. I wore his collar. He put his head to the left side of my face, and then to the right. He inhaled the perfume. Then he stood there, holding me. I looked up at him. Inadvertently my lips parted and I, standing on my toes, lifted my head, that I might delicately touch with my lips those of my master. But he did not bend to meet my lips. His arms held me from him.
“Put her in a work tunic,” he said, “and send her to the shed.”  CAPTIVE OF GOR; 7; Pages 279-284

They looked at me with horror.
“Into the water,” I told them. “Swim.”
“No! No!” they screamed. They fell before me in the sand, their hair to my sandal.
“We are women!” cried one. “We are women!”
“Be merciful to us," cried another. "We are only slaves!”
“Please, Master!” wept another. “Do not kill us!”
“We are women and slaves,” wept the fourth. “Keep us as women and slaves! Keep us as women and slaves!”
“Submit,” I told them.
They knelt before me, back on their heels, head down, arms lifted and extended, wrists crossed as though for binding.
“I submit myself,” said each, in turn.
They need not be bound. They need not be collared. They need not even have spoken. The posture of submission itself, assumed by them before me, constituted them my slaves.
They were now mine.  HUNTERS OF GOR; 8; Page 182
 

Kudos to you, Mr. Norman for writing the Gorean series!
A rich, yet utterly simple saga; a world, a time, a people;
those of the Counter-Earth .. the planet .. Gor.
Thank you!

The material presented herein was researched and compiled by me, naia{Saul}.
The material referenced comes from John Norman's Gor Series, The Counter-Earth Saga.
This is a work in process.
Please, do not take, copy, duplicate, or use this work as your own.
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