Norman Invasions by John Norman

intimately. She, to my amazement, squirmed, and lifted her body, piteously, to me. Clearly she was begging another touch. I did not give it to her. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she put her head to the side.
    Why did I make her wait? Why had it amused me to deny her, to remind her of her place?
    I had not touched her because I was a gentleman, of course. It would have been improper, bestial, to have so touched and dominated her.
    â€œBe kind,” she begged.
    I assumed she pleaded for mercy, to be unbound, to be clothed, to be hurried to safety, and shelter.
    I looked down upon her. She was indeed the Victorian maiden of the dreams, but removed now from the fortress of her society. She did not seem so prim now, so proper, proud, and prudish, so reserved, inert, formal, and cold. No. Gone now was the crisp white shirtwaist, the severe black skirt, the brooch, her civilization. She lay before me, arched over the rock, bared and bound.
    She is mine, I thought, literally
mine
.
    How is this happening, I asked myself. Why am I not unbinding her, and hurrying her to warmth and shelter? Why am I keeping her before me, as she is, naked, bound?
    She might as well have been a female slave, no more than a rightless, meaningless slave.
    She is a slave, I thought.
    She had been bred, and raised, for me, I thought, and has now been given to me, as a lovely gift.
    She is mine.
    I am a slave, and I beg the touch of my master.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œI said nothing,” she whispered, “
—Master
.”
    â€œWhat did you say?” I said.
    â€œâ€”
Master
—,” she whispered.
    â€œI do not understand,” I said.
    â€œYou must understand,” she said.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œThat I am yours, your
slave
. I have had dreams. Have you not had dreams?”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I have had dreams.”
    â€œI have been prepared for you,” she said.
    â€œHow have you seen me, in your dreams?”
    â€œAs you are now, as my barbarian lord, as my barbarian master.”
    The waves crashed about the shore.
    â€œHow could I fail to recognize my master?” she asked. “Have I not knelt enough before him? But why has he never touched me, why has he never fulfilled me? Has he not found me pleasing?”
    â€œI am sure he would find you pleasing,” I said.
    â€œAnd how has he seen me?” she asked.
    â€œAs something to be taken, and put to a man’s feet,” I said, coldly.
    â€œYes,” she cried, “that is where I belong, that is what is fitting for me!”
    â€œSurely,” said I, “this is madness.”
    â€œNo, it is not,” she said, “Master.”
    â€œIf I accept you as a slave,” I said, “you will be kept under perfect discipline.” I could not believe that I had said this. Could it be I who was speaking?
    â€œShe who is slave,” she said, “would will it, were she permitted to will, no other way.”
    Then she looked up at me, pleading, helplessly. She squirmed a little, tears in her eyes, and lifted her body just a tiny bit, as though fearing that I might be angered by her unsolicited importunity.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI am pleading silently, without speaking, for I have not been given permission to speak, hopefully, timidly, for the touch of my master.”
    â€œI see,” I said.
    â€œPlease,” she said, “be kind—
Master
.”
    Rain still assaulted the beach, and occasionally lightning illuminated it, and the rocks, and sea.
    â€œIgnite me, Master. Make me burn! It is what I am for!” she cried.
    I caressed her flanks, and her breasts, and shoulders and throat. I did touch the interior of her thighs and she encouraged me with a tiny supplicatory moan. I did not, however, deign to touch her intimacies. I knew that if I did so, she would buck and go mad with pleasure.
    Clearly she had the makings of a slave.
    I did not reject this