Gorean Book Quote Requests

~The Gorean Cave~ is NOT a substitute for the books themselves. There is no alternative for reading the Books yourself.

Find them, buy them and read them. I've even made it really easy for you. Search the links on the right.

Now, as you read what you find here, you can have your own copy of the book I reference. Find the page, read the quote yourself and then read the surrounding text too. *


3. The page numbers are wrong.
Notice the asterisk in the above quote from the front page?
Further down the same front page the asterisk refers to this:

* Due to different publishers, printings, font sizes and words per page, my page references may not align exactly with the book you have. All book page references throughout ~The Gorean Cave~ are taken from my own printed editions. The publisher, edition and printing of the books I have, and from which all of my quotes are taken, can be found on the Book Statistics page.


So, no, the page numbers are not wrong, at least not to me.


2. I cannot find anything about masters and slaves being "friends" and suspect there nothing in any book that says this.

Part of my confusion is your Point 2.
I am not sure if your problem is simply to state that I have posted a falsified quote or if you are, in a way, asking the question - Can masters and slaves be friends?

So ... in an effort not to be disingenuous, distorted or partly falsify a quote, I'll post the whole spiel from page 101 to 113 of book 18.

I say, based on these pages, that yes, masters and slaves be friends.
Arrive at your own conclusion.

"You have treated me with great tenderness and kindness," she said.

I shrugged.

"May I surmise from this," she asked, "as I know little of slavery, and am new to the condition, that there can be tenderness and kindness for a slave?"

"There can be tenderness and kindness for a slave," I said, "of course. It is not permitted, however, to compromise in the least the iron discipline under which she is kept."

"I see," she said.

I regarded her.

"I want to be kept under an iron discipline," she said.

"I know," I said.

It was hard for me to forget that she was naked under the hide blanket.

"Do masters ever love their slaves?" she asked.

"Often," I said. Indeed, a female slave is the easiest of all women to love; too, of course, she is the most natural of all women to love; these things have to do with the equations of nature, in particular with those of dominance and submission. To a man a female slave is a dream come true. A free woman, understandably, cannot even begin to compete with a female slave for a man's love. That is perhaps another reason why free women so hate their vulnerable, imbonded sisters. If a free woman would assure herself of her man's love she could not do better than, in effect, become his slave. She can beg of him, if she senses in herself the true bondage of love, an enslavement ceremony, in which she proclaims herself, and becomes, his slave. In their most secret and intimate relations thereafter she lives and loves as his slave. If a woman fears to do this she may, on an experimental basis, resort to limited self-contracting, in which her documents will contain stated termination dates. Thus, by her own free will, she becomes a slave for a specific period, ranging usually from an evening to a year. The woman enters into this arrangement freely; she cannot, of course, withdraw from it in the same way. The reason
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for this is clear. As soon as the words are spoken, or her signature is placed on the pertinent document, or document, she is no longer a free person. She is then only a slave, an animal, no longer with any legal powers whatsoever. She is, then, until the completion of the contractual period, until the expiration date of the arrangement, totally subject to the will of her master.

"And still keep them as slaves?" asked the girl.

"Of course," I said.

"Then I could be loved," she said, "and still kept as a slave, totally."

"Of course," I said.

"Even to being beaten?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Of course," she said, "for I would still be only a slave."

"Of course," I said. "How is your back?" I asked.

"Sore," she said.

"You have felt the quirt," I said. "You will be a better slave for it."

"How strange it is to think of myself in such terms, she mused.

"What terms?" I asked.

"That I am a slave," she said, "that I am owned, that I belong to a man."

"Perhaps it seems strange to you, sometimes, lingeringly," I said, "because you are from Earth. It is not strange on Gor, of course. Bondage for a beautiful woman, such as yourself, is a common reality on Gor."

"I gather that it is so," she said.

"It is," I said. "On Gor thousands of beautiful women, branded, and in collars, serve, and must serve, their masters with the fullness of their female perfections."

She nodded. She had seen female slaves. She herself had been sold in the town of Kailiauk, near the Ihanke.

"And you, in the Barrens," I said, "are such a woman."

"I know," she said. She had seen slaves, too, in the Barrens, of course, generally white women, the helpless, obedient, collared slaves of red savages.

"It is your reality," I said.

"I know," she said.

"I think it is time we went to the lodge of Canka," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said. She then sat up on the robes. She held the hide blanket about her neck.
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I almost wanted to cry out, to tear it from her, to fling her beneath me.

"I love Canka," she said. "I love him, more than anything." I nodded.

"And I want him to love me," she said, "even though I am only a slave, if just a little."

"I understand," I said. It was natural for a slave helplessly in love with her master to hope that he might see fit to cast her at least a particle or crumb of his affection. That much he might bestow even upon a pet sleen.

She looked at me. "Canka wanted me punished," she said.

I shrugged.

"But you did not do so," she said.

"No," I said.

"Punish me," she said.

"No," I said.

"Very well," she said.

She, moving slightly, but mostly sitting as she was, let the hide blanket slip to her thighs. It seemed an accident.

"Let us hurry to the lodge of Canka," I said. I did not know if I could retain my control.

"Please," she said, "let me adjust my collar." She then, carefully, with her small hands, aligned the beaded collar on her throat. At certain points she ran a finger around and under it, adjusting it for comfort. She then, again, aligned it, setting the central knot under her chin. "There," she said. "That is better, and more comfortable. How does it look?"

"Fine," I said.

"Good," she said. "It is important to us that our collars both look well and be comfortable."

I was driven half wild, seeing her small hands so careful and attentive upon that encircling badge of servitude, calling attention to it, adjusting it. It was, of course, a slave collar. "Let us go," I said.

"My hair," she said, "please - Master."

I watched her putting back her head and, carefully, apparently paying me no attention, arrange her long, lovely red hair. This action, of course, raised the line of her lovely breasts.

"One of the things most startling to an Earth girl, brought to Gor," she said, "is that she finds herself the object of such ardent desire."

"Perhaps," I said. To be sure she would have encountered little on Earth to prepare her for the sexuality of Gorean men.
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"Another thing which they find startling, and almost unbelievably so," she said, fussing with her hair, "is how irreservedly and passionately, and sometimes mercilessly, they are used."

I nodded. Such women, to be sure, would seldom be given much choice in the matter.

"And how ruthlessly they are owned and dominated, and made to obey," she said.

I did not speak.

"But then," she said, softly, puffing her head down, her hands still at her hair, her breasts still lifted, in what was almost a delicate token of submission, "that is fitting and proper, for they are only slaves."

"Yes," I said. My fists were clenched.

"How does my hair look?" she asked, bringing her hands down and lifting her head.

"Fine," I said.

She then turned and, putting her right leg under her and lifting her left knee, she threw aside the hide blanket. She smiled at me. She had done this shamelessly, as a slave. The body of a slave, of course, is public, in a way that it would be unthinkable that the body of a free woman could be public. "I think you find me attractive," she said.

"Yes," I said.

She then knelt back on her heels, facing me, but her hands were on the robes.

"Alas," she said, in mock sorrow, "how weak and vulnerable are slaves."

"Yes," I said.

"How helpless and powerless we are," she said.

"Yes!" I said, angrily. I saw that she had allure, and power. "But perhaps we are not completely powerless," she said. She put her hands behind her head and straightened her back. She thrust out her breasts and stretched.

"Perhaps not," I said.

She then lowered her hands and looked at me. She was kneeling, facing me, then, her hands on her thighs. Her thighs were closed.

"I am more powerful," she said, "than was that little snip and chit, Millicent Aubrey-Welles, from Earth." This was who she had once been. Then she had been enslaved.

"How is that?" I asked. At the merest word from one such as the former Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles, from Pennsylvania, a free woman, a Gorean slave girl, such as Winyela,
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would have to grovel, lick her feet and serve her in any way that she might desire.

"I am much more powerful than she," she said.

"How is that?" I asked.

"I am a slave girl," she said.

"You speak in riddles," I said.

"More powerful, of course," she said, "only in certain ways."

I smiled. I saw that she did now wish to be quirted for insolence. A slave, of course, can be quirted for any reason, or for no reason.

"In what way," I asked, "could a slave girl possibly have more power than a free woman?"

She smiled. She lowered her head, demurely. "Some men," she said, "find us attractive."

"That is true," I said. How unpretentiously, and delicately, she had put this point. I could not help, in spite of myself, but agree with her. How could the capacity of a free woman to stimulate male desire even begin to compare with that of the female slave? The female slave, in her helplessness, her vulnerability and beauty, is the most exciting and desirable of all females. Even to look upon one can drive a man mad with passion.

"Even a magnet," she said, "which may be moved about, and put where one wishes, has a little power."

"Yes," I said. How exciting, I marveled, are such women. How natural it is that they should find themselves, perhaps to their horror, perhaps to their deep excitement and pleasure, so stimulatory to male desire. Who can begin to quantify, or measure, the attractiveness of the female slave? Does she not seem to be the object designed by nature to be at the feet of men? Wars are fought to obtain them. Tributes, in part, are levied in terms of them, along with gold and Sa-Tarna grain.

"I can see," I said, "that the female slave, in her beauty, may possess, upon occasion, at least, some meager particle of power which does not appertain to the free woman."

"I think so," she said.

My response, I thought, appropriately dismissed from serious consideration the fantastic desirability and attractiveness of the female slave. Let them not grow arrogant. Let them continue to fear the whip.

"But how," I asked, "in what other way, other than in possible attractiveness and desirability, could a slave have more power than a free woman?"
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"If one can do things another cannot, and if one is permitted to do things which another, in effect, could not, then, I suppose, one has, in a sense, powers which the other does not."

"I see," I said. "Powers in the sense of capacities and permissions."

"Yes," she said. "Slave girls, for example, can, and must, do things and perform acts, superbly, lovingly and unquestioningly, which would be forbidden to free women, or unthinkable for them. Indeed, some of the performances expected of slave girls, and some of the services rendered by them to their masters, are doubtless beyond even the ken of our ignorant free sisters. They probably do not even suspect their nature."

"They may suspect," I smiled. The liberties, in certain senses, permitted to slave girls doubtless constituted an additional reason why free women so hated and envied them. The free woman, in a sense, is paradoxical. She professes to despise the slave girl; she professes to loathe her and hold her in contempt; but, too, obviously, she is almost insanely jealous of her. Can it be that she, too, in her secret heart, wishes to kneel before a man, naked and in his collar, totally subject to his will?

"But some of the things they probably do not even know of," she said.

"That is probably true," I said. It was true that free women tended to be somewhat naive and ignorant. Some of them, at any rate, when enslaved, seemed quite startled to discover the nature of some of the even routine performances and services that would now be expected of them.

"Too," said the girl, "we are better at certain things than free women, such as serving and pleasing men."

"That is true," I said. The docility, deference and perfection of a slave girl's service are legendary. They had better be. She is owned. Too, the intimate and fantastic pleasures they can give men are well known, at least among free men.

"Too," she said, "we are permitted to act in certain ways in which I think it would be unlikely that a free woman could, or would, act."

"Oh?" I said.

"Yes," she said. She then slid to her stomach on the robes, and roiled upon them, and then lay on her back. She lifted a leg, and put her hands to it, and then lowered it, its heel, the knee bent, on the robes. She looked at me. "I could now," she said, "pose nude before you, as I might please. I might writhe
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here, in a girl's mute petition for attention. I could, on my back and belly, in effect, dance for you, my head never rising above the knee of a standing man. I could crawl to your feet, begging, licking and kissing."

"I am only human," I said, angrily. "Let us go now to the lodge of Canka."

She rose to her hands and knees. Her breasts depended beautifully. "Have I disturbed Master?" she asked.

"No," I said, angrily. "Of course not."

"That is good," she said. She then crawled to me, and knelt before me.

"That is the position of a tower slave," I said.

"Oh," she said. The position of the tower slave, in most cities, is very similar to that of the pleasure slave. The major difference is that the tower slave, whose duties are commonly, primarily, domestic, kneels with her knees in a closed position, whereas the pleasure slave, in a symbolic recognition of the fuller nature of her bondage, and its most significant aspects, kneels with them in an open position. The tower slave, of course, like any other slave, is fully at the disposal of the master, in any and every way. The distinction between the tower slave and the pleasure slave, though honored in some markets, some specializing in girls sold primarily for housekeeping purposes and others in girls sold primarily for the pleasures of men, is not really a hard-and-fast distinction; it is not absolute; indeed, it can even be transitory. A girl who is ordered to open her knees, or who finds them kicked apart, for example, realizes that she has now become a pleasure slave. Similarly a girl in one context may function as one kind of slave and in another context, as another sort. Serving a supper to a young man and his mother, for example, the girl may appear merely efficient and deferential. She kneels nearby, her knees closed. After the mother departs, however, she may kneel differently before the young man, with her knees open, his.

Winyela opened her knees, spreading them widely, kneeling back on her heels.

"You may retain the position of the tower slave," I said, sweating.

"Please, Master," she said. "I am a Pleasure Slave. It will be better for my discipline to be forced to remain kneeling in this, the more revealing and degrading position. Too, this position, so open and exposed, can be of service in reminding me, lest I be tempted to become arrogant or proud, of my lowliness, my purposes and condition."
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"You would choose," I asked, "to kneel in the position of the pleasure slave, that position of female degradation and debasement, imposed on certain females by men, of utter female vulnerability, helplessness and beauty?"

"Yes, Master," she said. "Considering the nature of my bondage it is suitable for me. It is, considering the sort of slave I am, fitting and proper for me."

"You like it," I said.

"I am comfortable in it," she said, evasively.

"You like it," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said. "I find it deeply exciting and thrilling. I love kneeling in it."

"You are proud to kneel in it," I said, startled.

"Yes," she said.

"Brazen hussy," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I looked at her. She straightened her body even more. "It seems to suit you well," I said.

"It suites me perfectly," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"I am a pleasure slave," she said.

I rose to my feet. I prepared to snap my fingers.

"I love being owned by men," she said. "I do not find it degrading or debasing. I find it exalting and fulfilling. Do not despise me for what I am."

"And what are you?" I asked.

"A woman," she said.

"And a slave," I said.

"Yes," she said, "a woman, and a slave."

I extended my hand. I would snap my fingers. When I snapped my fingers she would rise to her feet and follow me, heeling me, like the sleek domestic beast she was, to her master's lodge. One of the first things a girl is taught to do is to heel.

"Have I not convinced you, Master," she asked, "that a slave has certain powers?"

"Perhaps some piteously limited powers," I said, "such as might characterize any owned beast."

"Of course," she laughed.

"You are truly a pleasure slave, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"You seem much different now from Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles, the upper-class girl, the debutante, from Pennsylvania," I said.
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"That little chit," she laughed. "She, too, was a pleasure slave, and in her heart she knew it. The best thing that ever happened to her was to be brought to Gor and put in chains."

Perhaps," I said.

"There is no doubt about it," she said.

"Do you remember her?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "But I am no longer she. I am now Winyela, only a slave."

"That is true," I said. Only a slave, I thought to myself, ruefully, only a slave! She was exciting and beautiful, and owned. It was all I could do not to seize her and put her mercilessly to my purposes. How natural it seemed that the men of Gor should keep such women in cages and chains, and force them, under whips, to please them.

"To be sure," I said, "I see that you have powers which mere Millicent did not."

"Yes," she said. "I now have the powers of a slave," That was true. It could not be gainsaid.

"We must go to the lodge of Canka," I said.

"But you have not punished me," she said.

"No," I said.

"Canka wanted me punished, you know," she said.

"I do not know if he really wanted you punished or not," I said.

"Of course he did," she said. "He is a red master."

"I suppose you are right," I said. I recalled that Cuwignaka and Grunt had also, both, been of this opinion.

"But you did not do so," she said.

"No," I said.

"I am unpunished," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Punish me," she said.

"No," I said.

"My master wanted me to be punished," she said. "I am ready to be punished. I want to be punished."

"It is all right," I said.

"Punish me," she said.

"No," I said.

"You have no intention, then, of punishing me?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Canka wanted you to have me," she said. "Do you not find me attractive? Do I not have at least the negligible charms of a slave?"

"You are attractive, and beautiful," I said. "And, if you do
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not mind my saying so, you have been somewhat blatant about your charms."

"In a collar, a girl may flaunt herself," she said.

I nodded. It was true. The collar has an interesting effect on female sexuality. It liberates the girl to be herself.

"Will you not give me but one kiss?" she asked.

"No," I said. "It is well known to what the kiss of a slave girl must lead."

"What?" she asked, innocently.

"Her ownership, domination and rape," I said.

"Oh," she said.

I snapped my fingers.

The girl, immediately, stood.

"You see, pretty Winyela," I said, "you are ultimately powerless. I snap my fingers and you must stand, prepared then to follow me, unquestioning, your will nothing, to your master's lodge. Your clever tricks now avail you naught."

She put down her head.

I laughed with triumph, seeing her standing there, her head down. "You see," I said, "you are ultimately powerless."

She lifted her head, and smiled. "I am not completely powerless," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.

"I will show you," she said, "how a slave can seduce a man."

Suddenly she reached out and, putting her lovely, bared arms about my neck, pressed her lips to mine. "Ai!" I cried, in anger, in fury. But I could not, then, for a moment, release her. She was a female slave. It is not easy to surrender a female slave from one's arms. Then, angrily, I pulled away from her. Her kiss, that of a female slave, burned on my lips. I shook with emotion. I was furious. The kiss, too brief, delicious, startling, warm, soft, raged in my body. It was like a chemical agent, a catalyst, introduced unexpectedly into my system. Reactions and transformations, eruptive, excruciating and compelling, irresistible and violent, seemed to explode in every compound and tissue in my body. Then she lifted her lips again to me. "Taste again of the lips of a slave, Master," she said. Then she was in my arms, crushed to me, and it seemed that there was only she, and the thunder and light in my blood. Then she was lifted in my arms. "See my collar!" she laughed. "I see it," I said, angrily. "I am a slave!" she said. "Yes," I said. "Do you like the taste of a slave, Master?" she asked. Then she reached out again to me, her arms about my
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neck, and, again, our lips met. I was then furious. I hurled her to my feet.

"Slut! Animal! Slave!" I cried.

"Yes, Master," she said, laughing.

She rose to her hands and knees and looked up at me, delighted. "I do not think you will resist me now," she laughed.

"Slave!" I cried, angrily.

"Yes, Master," she laughed.

I then, to her horror, strode to the side of the lodge and picked up the kaiila quirt which lay there.

"Please, no!" she said, frightened. "Do not whip me!"

But I laid the quirt to her well, five times, first striking her from her hands and knees to the robes, and then, as she twisted and rolled, helpless to avoid the blows, lashed her upon them.

"You wanted to be punished," I said.

"I did not want the punishment of the whip!" she wept.

"You will take what punishment your master decides to give you," I said.

"Yes, Master," she wept, her body marked, at my feet.

"On your back," I snapped. "Make slave lips. Throw apart your legs!"

Swiftly the girl complied, tears in her eyes. She then lay there, her lips pursed to kiss, her ankles widely spread.

I looked down at her. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes.

A girl who is commanded to make slave lips, or who receives the command, "Slave lips," must form her mouth for kissing. She then, commonly, is not permitted to break this lip position until either she kisses or is kissed. Needless to say, a girl cannot speak when her lips are in the unbroken, fully-pursed slave-lips position. The command which commonly follows the "Slave-lips" command is, "Please me."

I threw the quirt down beside the girl. She looked at it, there, gratefully. No longer was it in my hand. To be sure, it was where I might easily seize it up.

I then crouched beside her and lifted her to a half-sitting position. She closed her legs somewhat. I then kissed her, and this permitted her to break the slave-lips position.

"I do not think you will now hesitate to have me," she said.

"I do not think so," I said.

"It will be a great indignity for me, a great punishment, to be had by you," she said, "for you, too, are only a slave."

"Doubtless," I said.
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"Following the instructions of my master, Canka," she said, "I am to yield to you, fully, irreservedly, as a slave girl to her master."

"Yes," I said.

"I am to hold nothing back."

"No," I said.

"But even were I not under such commands," she said, "I know I could not help but yield to you. I have felt your hands before. I know that you can, if it pleases you, make me cry myself your slave."

"Perhaps," I said. I had handled this slave before. We both knew what I could do to her.

"I am ready," she said. "Please begin my punishment."

"Very well," I said.

She lay back, softly, in my arms. "That was a splendid punishment," she said, "Master."

I said nothing. To be sure, I had enjoyed administering it to her. It is pleasant to take a woman and reduce her to a cringing, cuffed, orgasmic slave.

"I am yours for the afternoon," she said.

"That is true," I said.

"It is still early," she said.

I doubted that it was that early. Still the cooking fires had not yet been lit for the evening meal.

"Master," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Punish me again," she wheedled, putting a finger on my shoulder, and then kissing me, "- please."

"Do you beg it?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I beg to be punished again."

"Very well," I said. I took her and threw her again beneath me. She cried out with delight.

"I love my master, Canka," she said.

"I know," I said.

"I want to be fully pleasing to him."

"You had better be," I said.

"That is true," she laughed. "It is strange," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"I am Canka's slave," she said. "Yet, I love him so much that even if I were not his slave, I would want to be his slave."

"Interesting," I said.

"I am only his enamored slave," she said.
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"I know," I said.

"Do you want to know something?" she said.

Surely," I said.

"Love," she said, "puts any woman in bondage, and the more deeply she is in love, the more deeply she is plunged into bondage."

"Perhaps," I said.

"I think it is true," she said.

"Perhaps you are right," I said. "I do not know."

"But if this is true," she said, "it would seem to follow that no woman could be truly in love who is not a female slave."

"What follows, I think," I said, "is that any woman deeply and truly in love is, in effect, a female slave."

"Imagine, then," she breathed, "the love that might be felt by an actual female slave, a woman actually owned, for her master. How helplessly she would be his!"

"Bondage," I said, "with its ownership and domination of the woman, is a soil in which it is natural for love to blossom."

"I know that that is true," she said.

"And the bondage of chains is then, not unoften, succeeded by the bondage of love."

"And think how deep is the bondage of the female slave," said the girl, "whose bondage is the bondage of both chains and love."

"Yes," I said. Her bondage was indeed the deepest bondage in which a human female could conceive of herself being placed, being only, strictly, the property of her beloved master.

"Do you know something else?" she asked.

"What?" I asked.

"You are my friend," she said.

"Beware that you are not quirted, a hundred strokes," I said.

"You are my friend," she said. "I know that it is true."

I did not bother responding to her. How preposterous was the girl's conjecture. Did she not know she was naught but a female slave?

"Can masters and slaves be friends?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "But the girl, of course, is always to be kept in the perfection of her slavery."

"Of course," she said. "Master," she said.