Gorean Commands and Positions

Speak

“They are harmless,” I said, for I had passed them with safety. To demonstrate this I again left the chamber.
Outside the chamber, carved over the portal, I saw something I had not noted before. In Gorean notation, the numeral ‘708’ was carved above the door. I now understood the meaning of the numeral on the girl’s collar. I re-entered the chamber. “You see,” I said, “they are harmless.”
“For you,” she said, “not for me.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She turned away.
“Tell me,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Tell me,” I repeated, more sternly.
She looked at me. “Am I commanded?” she asked.
I did not wish to command her. “No,” I said.
“Then,” said she, “I shall not tell you.”
“Very well,” I said, “then you are commanded.”
She looked at me through her tears and fear, with sudden defiance.
“Speak, Slave,” I said.
She bit her lip with anger.
“Obey,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
Angrily I strode to her and seized her by the arms. She looked up into my eyes and shivered. She saw that she must speak. She lowered her head in submission. “I obey,” she said, “—Master.”  PRIEST KINGS OF GOR; 3; Page 37

Kamchak gestured to me.
“Speak,” I said to her.
She lifted her head and then said, almost inaudibly, trembling in the restraint of the Sirik. “La Kajira” Then she dropped her head.
Kutaituchik seemed satisfied.
“It is the only Gorean she knows,” Kamchak informed him.
“For the time,” said Kutaituchik, “it is enough.” He then looked at the man-at-arms. “Have you fed her?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“Good,” said Kutaituchik, “the she-slave will need her strength.”
The interrogation of Elizabeth Cardwell took hours. Needless to say, I served as translator.  NOMADS OF GOR; 4; Page 45

“Well,” said Kamchak, “what is it that a Turian wench would crave of her master?”
“Nothing,” said Aphris.
“If you do not ask him, I shall,” said Elizabeth.
“Speak, Slave!” shouted Kamchak and Aphris went white and shook her head.
“She found something today,” said Elizabeth, “that someone had thrown away.”
“Bring it!” said Kamchak.
Timidly Aphris rose and went to the thin rep-cloth blanket that was her bedding near the boots of Kamchak. Hidden in the blanket there was a faded yellow piece of cloth, which she had folded very small.
She brought it to Kamchak and held it out to him.
He took it and whipped it out. It was a worn, stained Turian camisk, doubtless one that had been worn by one of the Turian maidens acquired in Love War.
Aphris had her head to the rug, trembling.
When she looked up at Kamchak there were tears in her eyes. She said, very softly, “Aphris of Turia, the slave girl, begs her master that she might clothe herself.”
“Aphris of Turia,” laughed Kamchak, “begs to be permitted to wear a camisk”
The girl nodded and swiftly put her head down.  NOMADS OF GOR; 4; Page 151

“I have heard,” he said, “that there is an insolent female slave in camp, a proud, unconquered girl.”
I shook my head. “No longer, Master,” I said.
“Did she escape?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I smiled, “she did not escape.”
“Her name was El-in-or,” he said.
“She did not escape,” I said.
He smiled.
“No female slave escapes Rask of Treve,” I said.
“That is true,” he said, the beast. But it was true.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“That same El-in-or,” I said.
“She did not escape?” he said.
“No.” I said. I laughed to myself. I had indeed not escaped.
“Whose slave is El-in-or?” he asked.
“Rask of Treve’s,” I said.
“Does she love?’ he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “she loves.” I tried to lift myself, to touch his lips with mine, but he would not permit me. “She loves desperately and completely,” I whispered.
“Whom?” he asked.
I lay my head back, regarding him. I put my head to one side. “Must I speak?’ I asked.
“Yes,” he said, toying with his finger on my shoulder.
“But must I speak the truth?” I asked.
“Or you will be lashed, and put in the slave box,” he said.
I was startled. Yet I knew, suddenly, that, if I lied, he would indeed whip me, and quite possibly place me again in the hated slave box. He was a Gorean master. I was at his mercy. I wondered if I could have felt so much his, so completely surrendered, if he had not possessed this complete power over my life and body. I belonged to him. But I did not want him to whip me, or put me in the slave box. I wanted only, desperately to please him. And I knew I must, for I was his slave.
The absolute truth must be spoken to a Gorean master. It is forbidden to a girl to hide her feelings.
I looked up at him.
“It is well known to Rask of Treve,” I smiled, “whom it is that the slave girl, El-in-or, loves.”
“Speak it,” he said.
“She loves her master,” I said. “She loves Rask of Treve.”
“I am he,” he said.
“It is you whom she loves,” I said.
“And who are you?’ he asked, his finger idly at my hip.
“She!” I cried, suddenly, laughing, with pleasure.
He kissed my throat.
“Has she been conquered?” he asked.
“Yes!” I said. “Yes!” I held him.
“Conquer me!” I wept. “Again conquer me!”  CAPTIVE OF GOR; 7; Pages 345-346

They would tell me what they knew.
“Speak to me,” I said, “of what took place in this camp, and tell me what you know of the doings and intentions of the men of Tyros.”
“We know nothing,” said one of the girls. ”We are only slaves.”
In the pouring of paga, I knew, they would have heard much.
“It is my wish,” I said, “that you speak.” My eyes were not pleasant.
“We may not speak,” said one of the girls. “We may not speak.”
“Do you expect the men of Tyros to protect you?” I asked.
They looked at one another, apprehensively.
Then, as they knelt very straight, I removed the pleasure silks from them. Then, to their astonishment, I unbound their wrists. I did not free them of the tether on their throat.
“Stand,” I told them,
They did so.
I had unstrung the bow. I removed the sword from my sheath. I gestured toward the water with the blade.
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.
“Slave,” said I to the first girl, dark-haired, “head to the sand, speak.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“We were the slaves of Hesius of Laura,” she wept. “We are paga slaves. Our master dealt with Sarus, Captain of the Rhoda, of Tyros. We were to be rented to the camp of Bosk of Port Kar. We were to serve wine. The men of Tyros, when the wine had been drunk, were to storm the camp.”
“Be silent,” I told her. I gazed upon the second girl, a blond. “Head to the sand.” I said, “speak.”
She plunged her lovely hair to the sand. “The plan went well,” she said. “We served wine to all, and, even, secretly, to the slave girls of the camp. Within the Ahn all were unconscious. The camp was ours.”
“Enough,” I said. “You,” I said, to the third girl, a redhead, “speak.”
She put her head, too, to the sand, and spoke, rapidly, trembling, the words tumbling forth. “The entire camp was taken,” she said. “All with ease, were locked in slave chains, both men and women. The wall about the camp was thrown down, the camp destroyed.”
“Enough,” I said. I did not command the fourth girl to speak as yet. I wished to think. Much now seemed more clear to me, things that the girls had not spoken.  HUNTERS OF GOR; 8; Pages 182-183

“You seem very quiet,” I said. “Perhaps your tongue has been removed, or slit, for insolence.” I went to her and held her head back, my hand in her hair. “Open your mouth,” I said. She did so. “No,” I said. “That is not the case.”
She made an angry noise.
“At least you are capable of sound,” I said.
She tossed her head.
I then walked about her. “Your curves,” I said, “suggest that you do not need to be a block of ice. They suggest that you are capable of responding as a hormonally normal woman. I see that you are not branded.”
I then crouched before her and touched the side of her neck. She pulled away, angrily.
This gesture displeased me. The slave must welcome the touch of a man. Indeed, she must even beg for it.
Angrily I drew the quirt from my belt. She eyed it, fearfully. She shook her head. She uttered tiny, protesting, begging noises. She lifted her head, turning her head so that the side of her neck faced me, that I might touch it, if it pleased me.
“Ah,” I said, “of course. You are a herd girl. You may not use human speech without permission.” I had taken it for granted, mistakenly, as it had turned out, that the prohibition against human speech imposed on the herd girl would cease to obtain when, say, as in the present context, she had clearly been removed from the vicinity of the herd. I understood now that this was not the case. This made sense, of course. One would not expect human speech from a she-kaiila, for example, even if she were not in her herd. Too, I now had a much clearer notion of the effectiveness of the discipline under which the red masters kept their white beauties.
She nodded her head, vigorously.
“I wonder if I should give you permission to use human speech,” I mused. “Perhaps, rather, I should feed, train and use you as a mere curvaceous brute, not bothering to complicate our relationship by according you human speech.”
She made piteous, begging noises.
“It has been a long time since you were permitted to speak, hasn’t it?” I said.
She nodded.
“Do you wish to be permitted to speak?” I asked.
She nodded, anxiously.
“Do you beg it?” I asked.
She nodded, desperately.
“Very well,” I said. “You may speak.” I usually permitted my slaves to speak. Sometimes, however, when it pleased me, I had them serve me mutely, as only delicious beasts. Only one or two slaves had I never permitted to speak in my presence, and those I had, later, sold off.
“That is good,” she said, “to be able to speak!”
“You may thank me,” I informed her.
“I do not wish to do so,” she said.
“The permission accorded,” I said, “may as readily be withdrawn.”
“Thank you,” she said. It pleased me to obtain this small amount of courtesy, this conciliatory token, from this woman.
“Thank you—what?” I asked.
“You are a slave!” she said. “You wear a collar!”
“Thank you—what?” I asked.
She was silent.
“Are you familiar with the quirt?” I asked.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, quickly. “Yes, Master!”  BLOOD BROTHERS OF GOR; 18; Pages 129-130

“Do you think I cannot see through your games, your trickery?” he cried.
“Do you think it is only because I do not want to die?” she wept. “Do you think it is only because I do not want to be put out into the Barrens?”
“Yes!” he said.
“No,” she said. “No!”
“No?” he asked.
“No!” she wept.
“Speak,” he said, angrily. “I grow weary.”
“But I am a slave,” she said, frightened. She looked at me, pleadingly, for understanding.
“Accordingly, miserable, unbonded slut,” I said, “you must speak the truth.”
She put down her head. She squirmed in her bonds.
“Must a command be repeated?” asked Seibar.
She lifted her head, tears in her eyes. “I am a slave,” she said, “and I must tell the truth. Forgive me, I beg you. Forgive me. Beat me if you wish.”
“Yes?” said Seibar.
“I want your touch,” she said. “I beg it!”
“Shameless slave,” he chided.
“As a slave may be, and should be,” she said.
He regarded her, not speaking.  BLOOD BROTHERS OF GOR; 18; Pages 366-367

“I liked it,” I said, suddenly.
“That is interesting,” he said. The beast! He knew I had almost screamed with submission and pleasure!
“Are slaves often used in such a fashion?” I asked, as though unconcerned.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Might I ever again be put under such a discipline?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Perhaps if you beg prettily enough,” he said.
“I will,” I smiled. “I will!”
“Do you recall the position?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Speak,” he said.
“The girl kneels, with her head down, her hands clasped behind her neck,” I said.
“You recall the position perfectly,” he admitted.
“Yes,” I said.
“Assume it,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, joyfully.  KAJIRA OF GOR; 19; Pages 440-441

“How came you to be a slave?” I asked.
She looked up, her eyes clouded. She bit her lip.
“Consider your reply carefully,” I said.
“I was taken to the levies,” she said.
“You have earned yourself discipline,” I said.
“Please, no!” she cried. “Have pity on me! I am only a poor slave!”
“Do you think it is permissible for you to lie to a free man?” I asked.
“No, Master!” she said. She put down her head, her head in her hands, and sobbed.
“Your reticence is interesting,” I said. “The matter is doubtless entered in your papers.”
“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.
“Speak, girl,” I said.
“I was taken pursuant to the couching laws,” she said.
“I see,” I said. Any free woman who voluntarily couches with another’s salve, or readies herself to do so, becomes the slave of the slave’s master. By such an act, the couching with, or readying herself to couch with, a slave, as though she might be a girl of the slave’s master, thrown to the slave, she shows herself as no more than a slave, and in this act, in law, becomes a slave. Who then should own her, this new slave? Why, of course, he to whom the law consigns her, the master of the slave with whom she has couched, or was preparing to couch.
“With what slave,” asked I, “did you couch?”
“I was only preparing to couch!” she said.
“But that is sufficient.” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.  MAGICIANS OF GOR; 25; Pages 303-304
 

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.
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