Norman Invasions by John Norman Page A

thought, but accepted it. I saw no need to reject her slave needs. Clearly that was what she was. I would not shame her for this, save insofar as it would serve to heighten her passion, and make her the more helpless.
    â€œYou are a miserable, worthless, pathetic, needful slut,” I observed.
    Tears sprang to her eyes.
    â€œYour ice has melted, my dear,” I informed her.
    â€œYes,” she whispered.
    My Victorian maiden, I saw, was now no more than a slave, and clearly one desperately needful.
    I wondered how many women were such, or would find themselves such, did they encounter masters.
    â€œSubject me to the attentions appropriate to my nature and condition, Master,” she begged.
    I then touched her, and she screamed with need, a surrendered, begging slave.
    She looked up at me, wildly.
    â€œSplit your legs, bitch,” I said.
    She dared to look at me, reproachfully.
    I slapped her with the flat of my hand once, sharply, and then, sharply, with the back of it. This left a bit of blood on her lip, where my blow had forced it against her small, fine teeth.
    This may seem brutal, but one does not accept insubordination, or hesitancy, in a slave.
    It is not done.
    â€œNow,” I said.
    â€œYes, Master!” she cried, joyfully, then instantly obedient, tears mixing with the rain on her face.
    I did not think further discipline would be necessary in this instance. She had been a slave from birth, bred for me, destined for me, but only recently, I supposed, had she comprehended that she had now, suddenly, come into the active state of her bondage, a state which, once initiated, would not be revoked.
    One who has tasted slave meat does not return to the stale crusts of pampered sluts; compared to the slave all other women are tepid, and mediocre. And boring. It is no wonder that the fearful slave, anxious to obey and please, finds herself prized, and determinedly sought, amongst the abundant, disappointing garbage of her inert, confused, petulant, neurotic sisters.
    I then took her into my arms and placed the seal of my claimancy upon her.
    So, too, I now understand was my mother bred for my father, and perhaps my grandmother for my grandfather. They are thorough, I thought, those who care for such matters.
    When I awakened it was to voices on the beach. I was lying alone, freezing, half in the cold water, half on the rocky sand.
    Men from Hill House brought me back from the beach. They had begun searching for me when it was discovered I was not in my room. I kept to my bed for four or five days, recovering from my ordeal, accepting two visits from a physician, from one of the nearby towns, and being coddled by diligent, concerned Mrs. Fraser, she and her wonderful pots of hot green tea. I suppose I was fortunate not to have contracted pneumonia.
    It had turned out to have been a markedly dreadful, terrible night for the village, for young Gavin had gone missing, and old Duncan, drunk, stumbling from the pub, lost in the storm, had somehow wandered into the sea and drowned.
    Perhaps, I thought, he had come too close.
    A day or two after I emerged shakily from my bed Gavin’s body was found in the sea, by a trawler, several miles to the south of the village. I did not care to look on it, but I was told he had not drowned, but, apparently, had fallen from the cliff, and been dashed on the rocks below. His lantern was found at a spot at the cliff’s edge, oddly flattened. His body was so battered, and torn, that it might have been trampled, but a fall to rocks, and being cast again and again by angry waters against rocks, was surely sufficient to produce these hideous effects. I was very sorry, for had I liked old Duncan, and Gavin, too. Indeed, the latter had been, in effect, my one friend, or closest friend, in the village. I acceded to the constable’s conjectures, in his inquiry, that I had seen Gavin’s lantern and had left Hill House to investigate the light, that I must have come