Gorean Commands and Positions

Kneel to the Whip

Whipping

The above pictures depicts, a few forms of, Kneel to the Whip;
Other common whipping positions, such as at a ring, stake, or pole,
kneeling, standing, or on the belly, are described below.

When Lana came to the wall I approached her, timidly. I put out my hand to touch her. “I want to be your friend,” I said.
“Find out when we are leaving for Ar,” said Lana.
“I might be beaten,” I whispered.
“No,” said Lana. “Targo likes you. He will not beat you.”
“Please, Lana,” I begged.
Lana looked away.
“I will try,” I whispered.
I went to Targo, trembling, and knelt at his feet, my head to the boards of the floor.
“May a slave speak?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
But I could not from the words, so frightened I was.
“Speak,” he said.
“When,” I asked, in a whisper, terrified, “—when do we leave for Ar, Master?”
There was a silence.
“Curiosity,” he said, “is not becoming in a Kajira.” His voice was not pleasant.
I moaned.
I crossed my wrists beneath me and touched my head to the floor, exposing the bow of my back. It is the submissive posture of a slave girl who is to be punished. It is called Kneeling to the Whip. I shook, visibly, at his feet. I whimpered. I waited for him to call a guard, to bring the lash.
“El-in-or,” said Targo.
I looked up.
“In the morning,” said Targo, “slaves will be fed before dawn. Then, at dawn, we will leave Ko-ro-ba for Ar.”
“Thank you, Master,” I breathed.
He smiled, releasing me.
I leaped to my feet and fled back to Lana’s side. “We will leave at dawn tomorrow,” I told her, excitedly.
“I had thought so,” said Lana.
I reached out to touch Lana’s arm, and she permitted me to do so. “I want to be your friend,” I said.
“All right,” said Lana.
“I am your friend,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lana.
“And you.” I begged, “you, too, are my friend?”
“Yes,” said Lana, “I am your friend.”
“You are the only friend I have,” I told her. I felt very alone.
“That is true,” said Lana.
How lonely it was, to have only one friend. But I had at least one friend, someone who liked me, someone to whom I might talk, someone whom I might trust and in whom I might confide.
“Tonight,” said Lana, “if you are given a pastry, you must give it to me.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because we are friends,” said Lana.
“I do not want to do that,” I said.
“If you wish to be my friend,” said Lana, “you will have to please me.”
I said nothing.
“Very well,” said Lana, looking away.
“Please, Lana,” I whispered.
She did not look at me.
“I will give you the pastry,” I said.  CAPTIVE OF GOR; 7; Pages 200-201

It was not long that I waited in the shadows before I heard, from within the stockade, commands and the piteous remonstrances of pleading slave girls. I then heard, again and again, the fierce, snapping crack of the slave lash. It fell again and again on the vulnerable, secured bodies of girls in bondage. Its searing cruelty would teach them, and swiftly, that no choice was theirs but immediate complete and abject obedience. I heard no screaming. A girl cannot scream under the lash. She can scarcely breathe. She can scarcely whisper, hoarsely, piteously, begging for mercy. In Port Kar I had seem the fingernails of girls torn to the quick as they scratched at stones against which they were tied. If she is bound against a wall her entire body may be injured, wiped with abrasions, as she tried to escape the whip. For this reason a girl to be whipped is often suspended from a ring or a pole.  HUNTERS OF GOR; 8; Page 250

“You are no longer his daughter” I said. “You are now without caste, without Home Stone, without family.”
“You lie!” she screamed.
“Kneel to the whip!” said Samos
Piteously she knelt, a slave girl. Her wrists were crossed under her, as though bound, her head was to the floor, the bow of her back was exposed.
She shuddered. I had little doubt but what this slave knew well, and much feared, the disciplining kiss of the Gorean slave lash.
Samos’ sword was in his hand, thrust under the collar of her garment, ready to thrust in and lift, parting the garment, causing the robes to fall to either side, about her then naked body.
“Do not punish her,” I told Samos.
Samos looked at me, irritably. The slave had not been pleasing.
“To his sandal, Slave,” said Samos.
I felt Talena’s lips press to my sandal. “Forgive me, Master” she whispered.
“Rise,” I said.
She rose to her feet, and stepped back. I could see that she feared Samos.  MARAUDERS OF GOR; 9; Page 13

“You know that at the twentieth hour you are to give pleasure to the guards in the north tower!” called the man.
“I am applying my cosmetics,” she called, “I shall hurry!”
“If you are late by so much as five, Ehn, “ he called, “you will be caressed by the five fingers of leather.” This was an allusion to the Gorean five-strap slave whip, commonly used on girls because of the softness and width of its lashes. It punishes severely but, because of its construction, does not permanently mark the girl.
“I hurry, Master! I hurry!” cried Vella.
The man left.  TRIBESMEN OF GOR; 10; Pages 314-315

“Never will I fetch the whip!” she cried.
Then, crying out with misery, frightened, a moment before the sand slipped from the glass, she turned toward the whip.
“In the fashion of the Tahari,” I told her.
She moaned, and fell to her hands and knees. The men, impassively, watched her go to the whip and pick it up, in her teeth.
“Put the whip down,” I told her.
She put the whip down, dropping it from her teeth. She looked at me, joyfully. “Kneel,” I told her. She did so, puzzled. “Strip,” I told her, “without rising to your feet.” She did so, angrily, slipping the tiny, torn rag over her head and putting it to one side. She shook her hair; she straightened her body. A murmur of appreciation coursed through the men in the room. Then one, in Gorean fashion, struck his left shoulder, and then the others. She knelt, straight, while men applauded the beauty of her. How proud she was! How fantastically beautiful are women! And I owned her.
“Tie your garment about your right ankle,” I told her. She did this, sitting, and then, again, knelt.
“Now pick up the whip again,” I said, “--in your teeth.” She did so.
She did not wear a collar. I had had that of Ibn Saran removed. I would put her in one of mine later. She was naked except that about her right ankle was tied a rag, and, strangely perhaps, about her left wrist was knotted a bit of bleached slave silk.
She looked at me, the whip in her teeth.
“Now go to your former slave alcove to be beaten,” I told her.
She left the room, a slave girl on her way to discipline.
I turned to one of the men nearby. “Be as her caller and guard,” I said to him.
He nodded, and, bending down, picked up a strap which lay nearby. “I shall come presently,” I told him. He acknowledged this. He left the room, following the girl.
A guard is not used in such cases to prevent the escape of the girl, for, in such a situation, in a house or kasbah, there is no escape for her. He serves to protect her, interestingly, from other slave girls. The strap or coiled rope he carries is used less often to hasten, in a humiliating fashion, a girl who might otherwise dally on the way to discipline, though it may serve this purpose, than it is to drive other girls from her. Such a strap or rope, of course, can sting hotly through slave silk. She is very vulnerable, you see, the girl who is to be punished, on the way to discipline. She is naked; she is not permitted to rise; she may not even speak, for the whip must be held between her teeth; to drop it is twenty extra lashes. Resentments, jealousies, petty feuds, enemities, are common among female slaves. Particularly is there jealousy and hatred for the most beautiful slaves, or for the highest slaves. Such a girl, on her way to discipline, is a delight to those who hate and envy her, and who would be only too pleased to take this opportunity to jeer and abuse her, sometimes cruelly and physically. Although many girls in the kasbah were chained here and there for the pleasures of men most were freed of impediments, that they might fetch and serve, and be seized when and wherever the men might want them. These, in the halls, would constitute a genuine danger to Vella, who, a high slave, had been the object of much envy. How pleased they would be to see proud Vella crawling in the halls to her discipline. The second reason a man accompanies the girl is to be the caller. He performs what is spoken of sometimes as the whip song, though it is not a song, but rather a series of calls or announcements. These summon other girls to witness one of their sisters on the way to discipline. “Here is a girl who has not been fully pleasing,” cries the man. “Look upon her. She is going to discipline. She was not completely pleasing. See her! Come, witness a girl who has not been fully pleasing!” These cries bring the other girls, with their burdens, and such, to watch the progress through the halls of the girl who is to be punished. Soon a derisive, moving gauntlet is formed, through which, constantly, the miserable, whip-bearing girl crawls. She is spat upon, and struck, with hands and straps, and kicked, and much abused, but, of course, only within those limits set by the caller and guard. This sort of thing is thought desirable in the Tahari, in encouraging the whip-bearing girl to be more dutiful in the future, and the girls of the gauntlet to resolve, too, to be more dutiful, that it not be they, next, at the mercy of their enemies and rivals, who carries the whip. The actual whipping in the Tahari, incidentally, is usually a matter between the girl and the master, or he and his men. Other girls are seldom permitted to watch one of their sisters being whipped. All they know, when the doors close, is that she will be whipped.  TRIBESMEN OF GOR; 10; Pages 353-354

"This is the woman," he said. "What am I bid?"
There was no bid.
"Look!" cried a voice. The crowd turned, and I and the auctioneer, looked as well. At the height of the center aisle, high, framed in the portal of the market hall, stood a warrior, in full panoply of war. He did not speak. He carried shield and spear. On his left shoulder hung the scabbard of the short sword. He was helmeted.
"Master?" inquired the auctioneer. His voice faltered.
The warrior did not speak.
The auctioneer indicated me, taking his attention from the figure who had recently entered the hall.
"This is the woman,"' he said, weakly. "What am I bid?"
At this point the helmeted warrior began to descend the aisle. We watched him approach.
In moments he stood, too, on the block, facing the crowd. He struck the butt of his great spear on the heavy wood. "Kajira canjellne!" he said. "Slave girl challenge!" He turned to look at me, and I knelt. I could not speak. I feared I might faint.
He turned again to face the crowd.
"I will have this woman," he said. "For her I will stand against all Ar, and all the world."
"I love you, Clitus Vitellius!" I cried, tears in my eyes.
"You were not given permission to speak!" cried the auctioneer. He lifted his whip to strike me.
But the point of the spear of Clitus Vitellius lay at his throat. "Do not strike her," said Clitus Vitellius.
"Yes, Master," said the auctioneer, white-faced, lowering his arm, frightened, hacking away.
Clitus Vitellius turned again to face the crowd of Ar. "Kajira canjellne," he said. "Slave girl challenge."
There was no response from the crowd. Then one man rose to his feet, striking his left shoulder. And then another rose to his feet and did the same, and another and another. Soon the crowd was on its feet, cheering and striking their left shoulders. Clitus Vitellius stood straight on that great platform, his great, circular shield on his left arm, his mighty spear, seven feet in length, headed in tapering bronze, grasped in his right hand. His head was high, his eyes were shrewd and clear, those of a warrior.
"She is yours, Master," said the auctioneer to Clitus Vitellius.
I knelt at his feet, joyfully. He would now free me, and take me as his companion. He put aside his shield and spear, to lift me to my feet as his equal.
"Your whip," said Clitus Vitellius to the auctioneer.
"You did not wish her whipped," he said. "She is mine to whip," said Clitus Vitellius.
The auctioneer placed his whip in the hands of Clitus Vitellius.
"Master?" I said.
"Yes?" he said.
"Are you not going to free me?" I asked.
"Only a fool," he said, "frees a slave girl."
"Master!" I cried.
"Kneel to the whip," he said. I obeyed. I put my head down, and, beneath my body, crossed my wrists, as though they were bound. My back was bowed, ready for whatever punishment he might see fit to administer to me. I was in consternation. I trembled. Could I be still a slave girl? Could he be serious? Was it his intention to keep me still as a slave?
Surely not. Surely not!
“I would not wish you to take a loss on her," he was saying to the auctioneer. "Here is something which may cover the cost of the miserable little slave."
I heard a pouch, heavy, filled with metal, strike heavily on the smoothed beams of the surface of the block.
"The gratitude of the house, Master!" cried the auctioneer. He untied the strings of the pouch and, crying out with pleasure, spilled coins of gold to the woods. Swiftly he sorted the coins, expertly. "There are a hundred tarn disks of gold here!" he cried.
The crowd roared its approval.
I cried, tears falling to the wood of the block, mixing in the sawdust. It was ten to a hundred times, or more, what I was worth. I saw then the extent of the regard of Clitus Vitellius for me. I wept with joy.
I had not known that a man could desire a woman so much. Yet he kept me as a slave!
Perhaps it is only a slave who can be so bought and sold, and so desired.
Oh, the indescribable, incredible feeling of being owned, literally owned, by a man!
I knelt, a slave ready for punishment. "Master is far too generous," said the auctioneer. "This is far more than the slave is worth."
"You are right," said Clitus Vitellius.
I shook with fury, but did not break the position. "Give me the next then, too, on your chain," he said.
"No!" I cried. He turned to face me, and, again, I swiftly lowered my head. Could he truly mean to keep me as a slave? Could he truly be that strong? I could not believe it.
"Gladly," cried the auctioneer. "Ninety-two," he cried.
The virginal girl, slender, sweetly shouldered, lovely legged, terrified, crept to the surface of the block. The bit of fluff clung about her. It did not much conceal her. Her legs were well exposed to the inspection of masters, and the sweetness of her breasts was evident, it but scarcely concealed in the wafting of insinuative, tantalizing fluff.
The crowd roared its approval, and she shrank back on the block. I wondered what men saw in her. She was herself only a bit of fluff, to rape and serve.
"Come here," said Clitus Vitellius to the girl.
Swiftly she fled to him, to stand before him.
"Position," he snapped.
She dropped to her knees before him, in the position of the pleasure slave.
"Get your back straighter," he said. She did so.
He crouched beside her and, with his belt knife, cut away the strings which held the fluff about her. It floated to the surface of the block, stirring in the slight movements of air.
He regarded the girl. He then looked, too, to me. "I will take both," he said.
"Master!" I cried in protest.
Then he stood over me, with the whip.
I looked up into his eyes. Then I was frightened. I saw that he was a Gorean master. However much he might hold me in regard, however much he might desire me, I saw that I could be to him only a helpless slave girl. Whatever might be his feelings for me I saw that he would have me only at his feet as a slave. I would be uncompromisingly owned. He would have all, fully, from me. I would not be permitted to hold anything back, ever. He would be master, and I slave. No longer did I dare to suggest that I might be freed. No longer did I dare to think it. He was Gorean.
I put my head down, kneeling to the whip.
"Forgive me, Master," I whispered.
"Once this evening," said he, "you, a slave, addressed me by my name, rather than as 'Master.'"
"Forgive me, Master," I said. I trembled. I recalled I had cried out, "I love you, Clitus Vitellius!" How foolish I had been. It was a girl's mistake. It would not go unnoticed.
"Too," he said, "more than once this evening you have spoken without permission."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Too," said he, "I think you dared to protest this evening my purchase of a girl."
I had indeed done so!
"Do you oppose your will to mine, or question my will in the least?" he asked.
"No, Master," I said.
"Do you think me an easy master?" he asked.
"No, Master," I said.
"Do you beg now to be punished?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said. "I beg to be punished."
I saw him grip the slave whip on the long handle with two hands. I put down my head. further, I shut my eyes, I tightened my body, I clenched my fists, held crossed, as though bound, beneath my body.
I determined to hold position.
I heard the swift sound of the leather in flight. Never had I heard it approach so swiftly. After the fourth blow I could no longer hold position. "Tie me at the slave ring," I begged. "Put me at a post, Master!" I lay on the block on my stomach, my hands over my head. There was sawdust on my lips and face. I could not, after the second blow, scream. Yet he struck me only ten times. I cried, lying on the block, punished. I felt him thrust a steel collar about my throat, and lock it.
I was collared. He had not been angry with me. He had only been punishing me. I had deserved a whipping. He had given it to me.
Yet it is hard for a girl to grow used to the leather. One can be a slave for years and still fear it. The Gorean master uses it unhesitantly if we are not pleasing. We know that he will do so. We are pleasing.  SLAVE GIRL OF GOR; 11; Pages 435-438

“Take them off, everything!” he said.
“Imnak,” she cried.
“Now!” he said.
Frightened, she stripped herself, and crouched on the fur in his tent. Nudity is not unusual among the red hunters. But even for them it is a treat to see a girl as pretty as Poalu stripped naked. I suspected that we would have numerous guests in the house of Imnak.
Imnak then bound her wrists together before her body and pulled her to her feet. “Imnak!” she cried. He pulled her from the tent, stumbling, to the pole behind the tent, that from which tabuk meat was sometimes hung to dry. A few days ago Arlene had been tied to the pole. Imnak fastened Poalu’s hands over her head and to the pole.
“Imnak!” she cried. “What are you going to do?”
Imnak, who had returned to the tent after fastening her in place, returned to the pole. He carried a sleen whip.
“Imnak,” she cried, “what are you going to do?”
“Only one can be first,” cried Imnak.
“Imnak!” she cried, struck.
The hunters and the women gathered about cheered Imnak on. He put the leather to her well.
Then she cried out, “It is Imnak who is first in his tent!” She shuddered in the straps that bound her. Then she was struck again. “Imnak is first!” she cried. “Imnak! Imnak!”
He thrust the whip in his belt.
He went before her, where she could see him. “You are first, Imnak,” she wept. “I am your woman. Your woman will obey you. Your woman will do what you tell her.”
“No, Imnak!” she cried.
“Aiii,” cried a man in the crowd.
He tied bondage strings on her throat.
The men and women in the crowd roared their approval. They stomped on the turf. Some began to sing.
None, I think, had thought to see so rare and delicious a sight as bondage strings on the throat of the arrogant, fiery Poalu.
Her temper and sharp tongue, I think, had made many enemies among the red hunters and their women. There were few there I think who did not relish seeing her in bondage strings. She might now be beaten with impunity, and must obey free men and women.
“Now,” said Kadluk, her father, “you will not come running home to the tent.”
He rubbed his nose affectionately on the side of her face, patted her on the head and turned away.
“Father!” she cried.
“Do I hear the wind?” he asked, his back to her.
“Father!” she cried.
“Yes,” he said, “I hear the wind.” Then he left.
Indeed, she could not now go running home to the tent of her father. Imnak, if he wished, could slay her for such an act. She wore bondage strings.
The crowd began to dissipate, leaving Imnak and Poalu much alone.  BEASTS OF GOR; 12; Pages 219-220

“Bring a slave whip!” cried the Lady Florence, leaping to her feet.
Pamela hurried from the room.
Brandon, though a prefect in Vonda, rose to his feet and carried papers to the Lady Leta and the Lady Perimene. They were, after all, free women. They affixed the seal of their witnessing signatures to the documents. He then returned to his place and himself signed the papers.
Pamela hurried back, pressing into the hands of the Lady Florence a long-handled, five-bladed Gorean slave whip.
She seized the whip with two hands and turned to look at Brandon.
I heard the stamp of Brandon strike on the papers before him. He looked up at the Lady Florence, and smiled. “The papers are in perfect order,” he said.
“I have waited long for this moment!” cried the Lady Florence. “We have been rivals, and enemies, for years!” she said to the prone slave. “How I have despised you in your pride and pretensions, how I hated you, how I held you in contempt! And now you are fully mine, helpless and at my mercy!”
The girl sobbed.
“I name you Melpomene!” cried the Lady Florence.
The girl shook with uncontrollable sobs.
“Kneel to the whip, Melpomene!” she ordered her.
Melpomene then, sobbing, knelt, her legs close together, her wrists held crossed under her, as though bound, her head down, touching the floor, the bow of her back exposed, a slave girl awaiting punishment.
“Triumph! Joy!” cried the Lady Florence. Then, holding the whip with two hands, she lashed savagely down at the slave. She struck her again and again, as though in maddened fury. The struck girl, crying out with misery could not hold the position.
“Do you dare to obstruct a blow of the whip!” cried the Lady Florence to the girl who lay now terrified and supine, in pain, wild, her hands trying to fend the leather away, at her feet.
“No, no!” cried the girl.
“No, what!” cried the Lady Florence.
“No, Mistress!” cried the girl.
“On your belly,” said Tenalion to the slave. “Hold to the slave ring with both hands”
The girl obeyed. The Lady Florence then again, wildly, angrily, laid the leather to the lovely back of her former rival. I smiled to myself. Tenalion, though doubtless a strict master, was merciful. He was helping the girl to endure her first beating. Usually, of course, a girl is tied or chained for her beatings. Sometimes, however, she is not secured but merely ordered to hold the ring. After the first two or three strokes it is sometimes difficult to pry her fingers from the iron. The most merciful thing, is my opinion, however, is always to tie or chain the girl. The beating can then be straightforward and efficient. The Lady Florence was now gasping. Holding the whip clenched in her hands, standing over the slave, gasping for breath, she stopped.
“Do you beg to be whipped?” she asked.
“No, Mistress!” wept the girl on her belly at the ring.
“Beg!” cried the Lady Florence.
“I beg to be whipped, Mistress,” she wept.
“Very well,” cried the Lady Florence, and then, again, she struck at the girl. Then, after a few blows, five blows, she stepped back, and threw aside the whip. The girl lay at her feet, sobbing, shuddering, her hands white on the ring, her back richly striped with the blows of the whip. The Mistress returned to her place, exhausted. The Lady Florence was not strong. She had only a woman’s strength. I observed the back of the girl. It was red, and covered with an intricate pattern of deeper reds, as stripes, but it was not bleeding, nor was it cut. The Gorean slave whip is made to punish a girl, and terribly, but it is not made to permanently mark or scar her. A girl with a scarred back brings a lower price in the markets. Melpomene sobbed in pain and disbelief at the ring. She had not known what it could be to be beaten. I had no doubt she would now be docile, helpless and obedient, a true slave girl. Yet I could not help smiling to myself. I wondered what would have been her reaction had she been beaten not by a mere woman, but by a man, with a man’s strength.  FIGHTING SLAVE OF GOR; 14; Page 283-285

There was a knock at the door.
“Kneel, and grasp your ankles,” he said.
I did so. I was then helpless, bound by his will.
He went to the door and opened it
A slave was there. She was naked, her hands were behind her back. About her neck, tied, was a key, doubtless to her bracelets, and a whip. There were two guards at the portal, but they were those who had been guarding it. The girl had apparently come alone through the halls to the portal, obediently, as I had.
Ligurious indicated that she should enter. She did, and he closed, and locked, the door behind her.
He freed her of the bracelets and tossed them, and the key, to the side. He then removed the whip from about her neck. He regarded her. Their eyes met.
There was a long moment of silence.
“Kneel, Slave,” said Ligurious, defining the relationship between them.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Is that the fashion in which I have my women kneel before me?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said, and put her head down to the tiles before him, the palms of her hands flat on the floor.
“Lift your head,” he said.
She did so.
“Kiss the whip,” he said. “Again, lingeringly!”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Now lick and kiss it,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
He then hurled the whip from him. It slid back across the tiles, until it stopped, at the door.
“Fetch,” he said.
The girl, on her hands and knees, went to the whip. She put down her head at the heavy, locked door and picked up the whip, delicately, in her teeth. She then, the whip in her teeth, turned from the door and, head down, on her hands and knees, returned to the center of the room.
“Kneel,” he said, “in the position of the pleasure slave.” She knelt, then, back on her heels, her knees spread widely, her back straight, her shoulders back, her belly sucked in, her head up, her hands on her thighs. Between her teeth was the staff of the whip.
“Whip,” said Ligurious.
She gave him the whip, extending her head towards him, opening her mouth, letting him take it from between, her teeth. She then, unbidden, resumed the erect, graceful, beautiful position of the Gorean pleasure slave.
He shook out the blades of the whip and dangled them before her eyes.
She swallowed, hard.
“Face that direction,” said Ligurious, pointing.
She rotated her body about a hundred degrees to her left.
“On your belly,” he said.
She went to her belly, her hands at the sides of her head. he changed his position a little. He was now a bit behind her, and to her left. He was right-handed.
She began to tremble.
He looked down at her.
I, kneeling, tightened the grasp on my ankles. I was sweating.
I looked at the branded female on the tiles.
Sheila, who had once been the Tatrix of Corcyrus, now a slave girl, lay at the feet of Ligurious, who had once been her first minister, positioned.
How she had used him, and tortured him! How cleverly she had manipulated him, how insidiously and cunningly she had exploited him!
He let the blades of the whip, idly, brush her back. She whimpered.
I recalled her words, two evenings ago, in the banquet hall, how she had said that she had made him dance like a puppet to her will, how she had deprived him of his leadership and manhood.
He drew the blades back, away from her body.
“What are you?” he asked.
“A slave, Master,” she said.
“And what else?” he asked.
“Naught else, Master,” she said.
I wondered if she retained power over him yet. I saw the whip swing back now, and to the side. He held it with both hands. On Earth a woman may reduce, diminish and destroy a man with impunity. This, however, was not Earth; it was Gor. I saw the whip pause at the height of its arc. I wondered if she retained power over him yet. Then I saw his eyes. In them I saw that the spell which she had exercised over him was broken.
I cried out and averted my eyes, swiftly, as the whip fell. The beating lasted only a few moments.
Then I looked back. Sheila was on her side, her body flaming with burning stripes; she was gasping and sobbing; she looked wildly up at Ligurious, a Gorean master. Then she looked away from him, not daring to meet his eyes. She, a female, lay now at the feet of a male, he totally dominant over her. She was now in her place in nature.
“Do you wish to be whipped further?” he asked.
“No, Master!” she sobbed.
“You will serve well, and yield perfectly,” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she said, fervently
Ligurious turned to face me. “You may break position,” he said.
Swiftly I released my ankles and slipped from the surface of the couch, to stand beside it.  KAJIRA OF GOR; 19; Pages 397-400

She crawled to the robe. Crouching on it, she looked at it, and its edges. It was an island of safety for her, or possible safety. Off it, in the next Ahn, she knew she would be whipped. On it, she did not know. This was, of course, a familiar master’s tactic, usually used only with new slaves, young, inexperienced girls, fearful of the sexual aspects of their slavery. They find themselves in a large room, usually empty, or rather empty, save for an imposing couch. They are then informed that they will be whipped anywhere in the room except on the couch and may, perhaps, be whipped upon it. Needless to say, the girl scurries to the couch, regards it, in effect, as a place of possible refuge, in spite of the fact that her sexual exploitation and domination will clearly take place upon it, and, for the time limits set, whatever they may be, fears to leave it. Some masters, if not pleased, will force the girl from the couch, and, keeping themselves between the girl and the couch, whip her, then letting her, after a few strokes, flee back to the couch. There, in that place of possible safety she will try again, desperately, to be more pleasing. This may be the last tune in months, incidentally, that the girl will be on the surface of the couch. Until her slave skills improve her place will be on furs, or a mat, or on the bare stones or tiles, at the foot of the couch. Indeed, some masters will sleep even a superb slave at the foot of the couch. Perhaps it is too obvious to mention but a point served by this original use of the couch is to break down the new slave’s fear of the couch and encourage her to see it in a favorable light, indeed, as a place of relative safety, comfort and favor. In a possibly hostile environment she desires its protection and significance. She wishes to be upon it. Later, of course, for nobler reasons, she will presumably come to view it with even greater eagerness and affection. On it she will be permitted to serve her master and on it, in turn, she will come to know his touch, as a loving, yielding slave.  BLOOD BROTHERS OF GOR; 18; Page 136

“No, no, no,” she wept, “I am a poor slave only because I am unresponsive! That is my nature! I cannot help it!”
“That is not your nature,” I told her. “And you are going to help it.”
“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.
“Oh,” she wept. “Ohh.”
“Do you beg now,” I asked, “to return to the robe?”
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Return, then, to the robe, Slave,” I said.
Swiftly she crawled back to the robe. She lay on her stomach on its surface, grateful to be again within the perimeters of its relative safety. She was half choking and crying.
“On your back, Slave,” I said, “hands at your sides, palms up, right knee lifted.”
Wincing, she complied.
“What is the place of women!” I demanded.
“At the feet of men!” she wept.
“And where are you?” I asked.
“At your feet!” she wept.  BLOOD BROTHERS OF GOR; 18; Page 137

“Oh!” said Iwoso, wincing, as I pulled tight the knots on her wrists, fastening them back and on each side of the stout post.
“How dare you treat me like this?” asked Iwoso.
“Rejoice,” I told her, “that you are not being bound in whipping position.”
“Whipping position?” she said. “But I am a free woman!”
“It is not only slaves who may be whipped when their captors please,” I told her.
She shrank back, her back against the post. To be sure, she was not tied with her belly against the post and her hands over her head, out of the way of the lash, or kneeling, her hands tied in front of her, about the post, common whipping positions.  BLOOD BROTHERS OF GOR; 18; Page 397

“Whip,” I said, to a man, the fellow who had earlier disciplined the foolish slave who had permitted herself, without permission, to display merriment over the plight of a free woman.
The whip was placed in my hand.
“Master?” asked the girl, apprehensively.
“I do not believe you were given permission to stop dancing earlier,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“As you are a stupid girl and new to your condition, your punishment, this time, will be light. Three lashes.”
“Three!” she sobbed.
“Do not expect masters to be so lenient with your stupidity in the future,” I said.
“No, Master,” she wept.
Rowena of Lydius, naked, and on her belly on the tiles, felt, like the common girl she now was, the slave whip of Gor.
“Stand,” I told her. “Back straight, belly in, breasts out. Lift your hands to your shoulders, flex your knees.”
“I have been whipped,” she said, disbelievingly.
“See the difference?” said a man to another at his table. “How she stands?”
“Yes,” said the other.
I touched her here and there, with the whip, deftly, correcting a line, or the tension of a curve.
She shrank back from the touch of the whip. She now knew what it could to do to her. She had felt it. After a girl has once felt the whip the mere sight of it is usually enough to bring her immediately into line. “What hangs upon the wall?” a master might ask. “The slave whip, Master,” she responds. “How may I be more pleasing?”
I handed the whip back to the fellow who had had it, and returned to my place at the table of Samos.  PLAYERS OF GOR; 20; Page 25

At this point Lavinia swiftly knelt, her knees in proper position, that of the female slave who is used also for the pleasure of men, reach to her tunic, and from within it, from where she had concealed it, from where it rested, at her bosom, withdrew the note which she then held, her arm extended, to the handsome fellow. One of the other two strode forward to seize the note but Lavinia drew it back, clutched in her tiny fist, held it to her body, and shook her head vigorously, negatively. This note, it seemed, was to be delivered to the slave alone. The fellow reached for it again and she put down her head to the stones, rather as in common obeisance or in kneeling to the whip, holding the note beneath her. “No, Master!” she said. “Forgive me, Master!”
“Slut!” he cried, and kicked her, again.
“Hold,” said his fellow. “You are under orders?” he asked the slave.
“Yes, Master!” said the girl. “The note may be given to one, and one alone!”
“Very well,” said the second fellow.  MAGICIANS OF GOR; 25; Pages 391-392
 

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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